Clean
by thebutterfliesarewilting
Summary: You can't imagine it happened to you. That happened to the other girls; the ones that wear risqué clothing and get with guys before they've barely even got their periods or started wearing bras. It shouldn't have happened to you. - Two Bit sister story. ONESHOT


**A/N This contains dark themes that may or may not include child molestation. This was a little close to home for me, not in the way you might think, but still close to home. For this reason, it might not be my best work, and if you don't like it, I apologize.**

He's on top of you, like he always is, and you can't breathe. You never can. Ever since this started it's like you took a deep breath and you haven't let out that breath since then. It hurts. It always hurts. It hurts like a fire burning inside of you until you go blissfully numb as if you've been kissed by tons of ice. You try to think of other things; happy things, like the sunsets Pony's always talking about. Then you stop because you just can't bring yourself to think of him while _this_ is happening to you.

You'll admit, the first time you cried. You cried because you were hurt in ways you never thought you could be hurt before. Or at least never imaged it would happen to you. That happened to the other girls; the ones that wear risqué clothing and get with guys before they've barely even got their periods or started wearing bras. It shouldn't have happened to you.

You had to stop crying, though, because he seemed to like it. He liked the way you shook and squirmed and writhed and wriggled. The way you tried to escaped got him off quicker, which would have been a relief, but you don't want if to like it anymore that he had to.

You can't cry until he's getting dressed, like nothing ever happened. You cry as you slowly work your way through the pain of getting into your clothes. You have to wait until a couple minutes after he leaves. Sometimes he comes back for more. He's gets mad at you for thinking he's "done with you". So you wait in anticipation those grueling minutes. Then you get to the shower, somehow, and wash away everything. You scrub away all the pain and memories of where he touched you. And only then do you cry. And you still never feel clean. Ever.

You used to wonder what was so wrong about it. It is just sex, after all. But it isn't. It's not sex when it's forced like that. It's cruel and terrible and vile.

You used to think about what your first time would have been like. It's not like you were itching to get it all over with. It's just a momentous moment that should be important. It should be something you remember. And by God, you will remember. It shouldn't have been like this. It should have been with someone you love, it should have been romantic. It shouldn't have hurt so much. But he didn't give you that choice.

You want to hate him. No, no, you do hate him. You hate him so much a passion of rage burns inside you. You want him to die. He deserves that for what he did to you. He's a monster.

You want to tell someone. Every time someone passes you, you want to shout "Look! Look at what he did to me!" You never do. You don't have the nerve to tell anyone anything. You're afraid of what people will think of you. They'll think that you wanted it to happen; that you allowed it. They'll think you're filthy. Dirty damaged goods. That's all you are.

No one will believe you anyway. Two Bit would. But then he would kill Ma's boyfriend for what he did to you. You can't have him go to jail. Not for murder. So you suffer in silence.

You don't see how nobody can notice. They don't notice the bags under your eyes from your lack of sleep due to nightmares. Why can't they see the careful way you walk for fear of hiting one of the constant bruises you have? Are they blind? How about your flinching whenever someone raises their hand? If you can't tell anyone, why can't they at least notice?

Johnny looks at you strange, though, lately. Maybe he's dirty, too, like Ma's boyfriend. That's the only possible reason. He can't know what's happened to you. No, he can't. He'll never figure it out. No one will.


End file.
